IN A RELATIONSHIP, TRAVELING SOLO

A dear friend of mine is a seasoned international traveler. She and her husband are both teachers and they take every fifth year off to see the world. (Oh, what a luxury: job security!) Her adventures are documented through professional-caliber photos and enchanting blog entries. She has a way about her that allows her to connect with virtually anyone. Even close to home, an ordinary stop in a bookstore becomes a meant-to-be interaction with a stranger, both of them clearly benefiting from the experience. We could visit the same place in the world, one of us starting out five minutes ahead of the other and we’d have entirely different experiences, mine fun but ordinary, hers a captivating tale. (I keep telling her she’s got what it takes to be published as a travel writer, but she’s a humble soul, quick dismiss my praise.) 

 

One of the things I admire most about her and her husband’s travels is that they spend much of their travel year apart. One year she chose to see India while he headed for Peru. At some point, they met up in Costa Rica. I’ve always loved that they can be happily married—which has always been apparent—and yet they can maintain an individuality, nourishing their own curiosities, continuing to grow alone while ultimately thriving together.

 

I want that.

 

At least, that’s what I’ve always told myself. 

 

The biggest obstacle has been obvious. Oftentimes, I haven’t had a partner with whom to travel separately. Hey, fictional boyfriend (who, as a fictional image, I’ll say is a doppelgänger for Ryan Reynolds), enjoy your three months in South Korea while I’m in Slovenia. Meet me in Morocco. Alas, I waited and waited for days in Marrakesh. My Ryan was a no-show.

 

Another obstacle has been that travel has never gone well when I’ve had a partner. Weekend in San Francisco? Disaster. Nostalgic visit to Dallas and Fort Worth where I lived for eight years? Our “special” dinner after hours of bickering in the rental car which didn’t seem to have functioning headlights? Subway sandwiches, for god’s sake. Road trip to L.A.? He wanted to head home without me.

 

So, yeah, maybe just the travel alone while in a relationship. I’ll “like” each of your Facebook pics from Cleveland, Doppelgänger Ryan, if you “like” each of mine from Budapest. (Yes, I’m damn well going to have a better trip than Ryan.)

 

I’m in a relationship now. (Hallelujah!) Evan and I have traveled well together so far. Our second date was an entire weekend in a quaint rural part of northwestern Washington. We’ve spent another fabulous weekend together in central Washington and had a romantic four days in New York City. The blips have been few. One, maybe two. I swear I cannot even recall what they were about.

 

At the moment, we’re both traveling but in separate places, an ocean between us. He’s visiting parents and friends at his Airstream trailer in Taos, New Mexico while I’m spending two weeks in Iceland and Sweden. His trip had been planned months before we met. His parents duly booked a nearby Airbnb. He likes schedules and looking far ahead. Evan’s joked about merging our calendars—okay, I don’t really think he’s joking—but I keep saying my calendar is always blank. I’m perhaps an anti-planner. Whims work. I didn’t start looking into my trip until two weeks beforehand and was still making reservations while at the airport in Vancouver.    

 

So there it is. I got what I asked for. A guy in my life and a trip on my own. Healthy. Enlightened. Far from codependent.  

 

And yet it’s glitchy. We’ve only been together three months. It should be merely a slight extension of the reality of our relationship. Time apart is something we deal with on a weekly basis. We live in different cities. There is already an international border between us. That sounds more dramatic than it is. Seattle and Vancouver are three hours apart when the traffic flow is good and the border wait isn’t so bad. Things have evolved into us having long weekends together such that we see each other four days a week. 

 

The gayest part of my trip has 
been taking a photo of Rainbow
Street (which is not much more
than a crosswalk) in Reykjavik.

Instead of three days apart, it will be nineteen. That’s a big chunk in a new relationship. I think we feel as secure as we can be with this early test of time and distance. Still, there are what ifs. We’ve given each other plenty of reassurances. For my part, I’ve made it clear that dashing to a city’s gay bar or cruising locals on my phone has never been my thing. When I travel, I go to art museums, I map out scenic runs and bike rides, I search for quirky local color and I set out to find the best pour over coffee. Basically, I seek solitude. I love the fact that everyone is a complete stranger and the introvert in me recalls what my parents and teachers instilled in me when I was five: Don’t talk to strangers. Yes, I know I’m missing out on fascinating interactions that my teacher friend falls into but, even if I were to engage in talk, it would only make me break out in a sweat and I’m already stressed over the fact that public laundromats are nonexistent in Iceland and Sweden. The most engaging conversation I had during my six days in Iceland was with a couple of sheep that wanted their picture taken. (Apparently, they haven’t mastered the selfie.) 

 

View from walking along the crater
of Hverfjall in northern Iceland.

I’m still enjoying my adventures. I’m thankful that no one is saying, “How ’bout sleeping in tomorrow?” or “Let’s make today all about Vikings” or, gasp, “ABBA is overrated.” I only have myself to blame over getting sick immediately after eating the dal plate at that vegan restaurant in Reykjavik and no one had to bear my frequent wincing the evening I injured myself in a poorly laid out hotel bathroom in Akureyri. Again, my choice of accommodation. No finger pointing over the broken toe. But Evan comes to mind frequently each day. Swans! (Evan loves swans.) Lilacs all over Visby. (Evan loves lilacs, too.) He’d have loved hiking along a volcanic crater (though maybe not four of them; Iceland is teeming with them). Oh, how we’d have laughed at the room I booked on a ship in Stockholm. The boat was more like a tin can that floats (for now, at least) and the room felt more like a dog’s crate. 

 

He would have laughed, wouldn’t he?

 

I’ve been sharing pics. It’s not the same. I miss the guy. 

 

Atop another volcanic crater, this one 
Eldfell on Haiemay Island off the
southern coast of Iceland. Windy 
conditions and, when going solo, 
I didn't have to fret about 
every hair being in place.

The time difference makes communication challenging. I have photos and texts awaiting me when I awake each morning and the same goes for him. We’ve tried a daily FaceTime chat but the connection has been spotty and, for the last two days, nonexistent. It’s rare that I look forward to a trip ending, but aside from giving my credit card a rest, there’s a silver lining in going home. I’ll have one full day to recover in Vancouver before another weekend road trip to Seattle. It will take more discipline than usual to stick reasonably close to the speed limit.

 

It's less than a month before the next trip. Colorado. Both of us. Together and apart. Weirdly, my sister’s home and his family cabin happen to be only thirty minutes away from each other. We may spend a day in separate spaces but, compared to the distance between Gothenburg and Taos, or even Vancouver and Seattle, it’s like we’ll be neighbors. We may even run into one another in the cereal aisle at the grocery store. Time will tell how we’ll negotiate travel. I foresee more solo treks but, I suspect it will be easier once our relationship is more firmly established.

 

The bike I rented, propped up
against the charming hotel I
stayed at in Visby on Sweden's
Gotland Island in the Baltic Sea.

For now, I’m in transit to Uppsala, Sweden and thankful no one is tapping my shoulder, trying to persuade me to venture five kilometers out of the city to see the site where humans were sacrificed in pagan rituals of the 11^th century, their bodies left hanging and rotting in trees. Nope. Not a chance. I’ll be at the botanic gardens (Linnéträdgården) instead. I prefer trees adorned rather basically…leaves, maybe a lovely little nest. And for dinner, I’m good with picking up knäckebröd (crispbread) and cottage cheese at the ICA two blocks from the hotel. Sometimes I think Evan’s rather relieved he’s not traveling with me.

 

 

 

 

 

  

PLENTY OF HEART IN "HEARTSTOPPER"

I recently read a book called Let’s Get Back to the Party by Zak Salih. More than anything, I appreciated the setup: two gay childhood friends who’ve drifted apart, now at midlife, both single, one intrigued by the sexually freer (AIDS-unaware) generation that preceded him, the other marveling at the openness and freedoms taken for granted by the generation that follows. (In truth, the premise is better than the telling.) I suppose I’ve, on occasion, looked in either direction as well. What would life have been like if my coming out years weren’t mired by the omnipresent leeching of the AIDS specter? Conversely, what if there had been established rights and freedoms with marriage a viable option and coming out being a stage to navigate without so much drama? 

 

It’s the relative normalcy of coming out for a younger generation that unfolds endearingly in the eight-episode series “Heartstopper,” adapted from a graphic novel by Alice Oseman and currently streaming on Netflix. Coming out still has its share of angst, particularly since the series is set in a private English high school for boys. The fusion of angst and adolescence will always be. New zit? Drama. Crush in danger of being revealed? Drama. I think I’m gay? Okay, still exponentially more drama. The easiest way to survive high school may always be fitting in rather than being different.

 

The two main characters are Charlie Spring, an outed gay student in grade ten, who is considered a geeky outcast, and Nick Nelson, a popular, seemingly straight grade eleven student who is the star of the rugby team. It’s a familiar scenario; for me, it’s reminiscent of the 1986 movie “Pretty in Pink,” but many other shows and books may come to mind. The difference, of course, is this is a teen romance in which both leads are male. Imagine having this as something to watch (repeatedly) to find hope, connection and courage while coming to terms with one’s identity.

 

Nick & Charlie

If there’s a twist, it’s that Nick’s sexuality isn’t so clear. Liking boys isn’t something he sensed and repressed at six or ten or twelve. Charlie awakens altogether new thoughts in Nick. What is this attraction? Is Nick gay? Bisexual? The bisexuality bent is refreshing since, while it’s long been part of LGBTQ, it hasn’t been given its due. I still hear people derisively dismiss bisexuality as a temporary phase or stepping-stone for people regarded as still having a foot in the closet. 

 

Being a high school story, there has to be a bully and in this case it’s Harry Greene, one of Nick’s rugby mates, a rich kid who loves to ridicule Charlie and Charlie’s geeky friends. In Harry’s mind, it’s always done in jest. If the laugh should come at someone’s expense, it’s perfectly all right when the person is clearly beneath him. 

 

Nick and Charlie’s worlds would never intersect but for being seated side by side for one of their classes. A friendship forms but Charlie’s feelings seem to go beyond that. It’s the standard situation of This is crazy…What could a guy like him possibly see in me? Of course, there’s the addendum: What could possibly happen between a straight, popular jock and a gay geek? We’re told many times that Nick will only hurt Charlie, particularly since Nick is so entrenched in the macho-infused rugby scene. But Nick never seems to even feign to be a tough guy or a ladies’ man akin to, say Danny Zuko in “Grease.” As a viewer, I never doubted Nick’s sweetness, but then I’m not a high school kid, imagining a dozen doomsday scenarios and interpreting a blank face as conveying a four negative emotions. I can recall this kind of customary teen angst if I let my memory stretch back that far. Frankly, I’d never want to relieve adolescence, no matter how much progress may have been made in terms of LGBTQ acceptance. Gone are the days of phoning someone to be your date to the homecoming dance. (The drama was amped for me living in East Texas where football and dating culture were on steroids.) In “Heartstopper,” there is lots of texting and staring at phone screens, hoping for a response that doesn’t always come. It’s slightly less direct than hearing a voice convey rejection or indifference, but the waits and the worries are still as crushing.

 

  Tao and Elle

Beyond Nick and Charlie, “Heartstopper” has other characters exploring LGBTQ identities. There’s Elle, a Black trans friend who transferred from the boys’ school to a safer, if not more welcoming, private school for girls. She is eventually befriended by two classmates who are a budding lesbian couple, Tara and Darcy. Charlie’s best friend is Tao, a protective, loyal and lippy classmate whom Elle has a crush on. Elle’s identity is not a plotline; rather, it just is. She’s not a spectacle; she’s a person. I suspect her storyline will expand now that Netflix has renewed the series. 

 

Season 1 consists of eight episodes which I breezed through which is not typical of my viewing habits. It’s hard to turn away because it’s so refreshingly charming. You want to root for every character, even perhaps Harry Greene and Charlie’s past, still-closeted fling/boyfriend, Ben. As a bonus, Nick’s mother is played by much-lauded actress Olivia Colman. There’s not much for her to do—indeed, her scenes were filmed over the course of two days—but she manages to convey steadfast support and concern just like Harry Dean Stanton in “Pretty in Pink.” There’s also a Black gay art teacher whose classroom always seems to be empty and who offers Charlie lite advice while always seeming to be on the way out. The room is both a safe space and a spot for Charlie to hide from dealing with his life. A bonus in the series is its fun, hip soundtrack, something like the music was in—yes, again—“Pretty in Pink” back in the day. A song that stood out for me was “Why Am I Like This?” by Orla Gartland.

 

 

“Heartstopper” is the kind of show for which the term “feel-good” was coined as a descriptor. It goes down easy and left me with a smile after each episode. It’s worth a watch.   

 

 

I’M OUT or WHY BROADWAY’S REVIVAL OF “TAKE ME OUT” DIDN’T STIR ME

I didn’t do it, I swear. The day after Evan and I saw the revival of “Take Me Out” on Broadway, pictures surfaced on Twitter of the star appearing naked in a particular scene. Our seats were in the balcony, allowing for decent viewing but most definitely not close enough for clear footage of an impressive extra limb, even when flaccid. Smartphone photography remains a work in progress. (Truly, it’s a shame someone opted to create a bit of a frenzy online by posting the clip. As tickets were scanned upon entering the theater, our phones were required to be shut down and placed in locked carrying cases that weren’t opened until after the show. An actor shouldn’t have to worry about his performance being whittled down to a certain appendage, ogled on social media. It’s both undignified and unnecessary. If people really want to see dangling dicks, they can find plenty of free porn on the internet.)

 

Truth is, a man’s naked body on stage isn’t a big deal. “Hair,” premiering on Broadway in 1968 was supposed to shatter that taboo. I suppose it remains uncomfortable or at least a novelty to theater viewers. What appears before them is not contained on a screen. The naked body and the viewer are in the same big room. It makes the cast of “Cats” seem ridiculously overdressed. 

 

It’s not just the star, Jesse Williams, who appears naked. “Take Me Out” is a play about a superstar player coming out as gay and most of the scenes are set in the locker room with players dressing and undressing in front of their lockers or saying their lines in a communal shower which appears and disappears as needed. All the players strip down at one point or another, most more than once. 

 

To be sure, these actors had well-sculpted bodies, easy on the eyes. Still, whenever there is nudity in a play, TV show or movie, my first thought is about whether it’s gratuitous or integral to the telling. Being a reserved person, most of the time I conclude it’s unnecessary. I feel sorry for the actors. I’m (usually) uncomfortable for them. I want the scene to end. Let’s move on to a scene where the main character suffers a career-killing shoulder injury (enough baseball talk, thank you) and tries out for a bit part in “Cats,” fully customed, of course. Keep it authentic. 

 

As a tangent, I’ll add that, while Jesse Williams can certainly be proud of his body, my eyes were fixed on him more in other scenes when he wore form-fitting ath-leisure. Alas, the clothes were not listed in the credits of the Playbill. Guess I’ll forgo an Amazon shopping spree and stick with my frumpy hoodies and saggy jeans.

 

I can make an argument defending the nudity in “Take Me Out.” I won’t go so far as to say it’s necessary, but there was a point to it. First, it might be silly to have guys standing around in full uniforms in every scene. It’s a locker room. I’m writing this at a café after having just finished swimming laps. I was in a locker room before and after my swim. There was lots of nakedness. It just happened to be the sort one feels a dire need to turn away from. I don’t need to be inundated with previews of how saggy my ass will look in—what, twenty-five years? Or is it only ten?! Grab your towel, guys, and cover up!

 

I think the nudity was supposed to convey a sense of exposure and vulnerability, the players’ posture and openness to “shoot the shit” changing once it’s revealed that one among them is gay, the straight players implicitly blaming the newly out gay teammate for instilling a sense of modesty and self-consciousness when their modified decorum is really brought on by homophobia. Sure, I can understand that argument. It’s another way to shine a spotlight entrenched man culture. That being said, I’d have preferred it if the play had been set in a dugout and perhaps a bar. I don’t think a single line would have to be amended. Still realistic settings even if it didn’t have players feeling vulnerable in their nakedness with a gay guy in their midst. How much jock-related homophobia do I really need to see?

 

And that leads to the bigger problem I had with “Take Me Out” which originally ran on Broadway in 2003 and won the Tony Award for best play. (It received four new Tony nominations last week, on the same day the nude footage appeared on Twitter, including best play revival and three acting nods, one to Jesse Williams.) Nineteen years ago, the so-called playing field for queer people was considerably more of a minefield. At the beginning of 2003, Netherlands was the only country in the world that had legalized same-sex marriage. “Will and Grace” was a hit TV show, but Sean Hayes, who played Jack, wasn’t out. The U.S. military was still thick in its muted tolerance of gays with its “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy as a means for allowing members to avoid being discharged. In 2003, a baseball team’s unease about a player being openly gay fit with what was going on in society as a whole. Coming out came with complications.

 

As a revival, the discomfort and outright homophobia that players think and feel in “Take Me Out” feels woefully dated, but it’s not presented as a period piece. There aren’t 2003 references in the script. I took it as playing out in 2022. The homophobia in sports—among fans and players—remains largely unchecked. Most gay athletes are still closeted, especially in team sports. It’s a milieu for Neanderthals. It exists, but so much of the rest of North America and Europe has moved on. I’m past the point of seeing portrayals of jocks feeling ogled by a gay teammate and hoping we can learn from it. These jocks are clunky and a play depicting them comes off as just as clunky.

 

Admittedly, there were many in the audience who found the play impactful. People, presumably straight, gasped at expressions of hatred and intolerance, as if they’d not heard these things, as if they thought everyone had moved on. Obviously, not everyone has, but the people I choose to associate with certainly have.

 

Nudity had no part of my wanting to see “Take Me Out.” I simply wanted to see a gay play. I wanted to appreciate the writing. I wanted to identify with gay characters. By intermission, I was wishing we’d chosen a different play; indeed, a different revival. It heartened me when Evan leaned into me and whispered, “Would it be bad if we just left?” My guy was equally apathetic. (I think I would have enjoyed “How I Learned to Drive” with Mary-Louise Parker and David Morse much more. Alas, my trip to New York wasn’t long enough, my pockets not deep enough.)

 

As I’d mentioned last year when country music singer T.J. Osborne of the Brothers Osborne came out as gay and kissed his partner after winning an award on a televised awards show, I was happy for him on a personal level, but I’m so far beyond the point of congratulating sectors that have clung to the Dark Ages when someone finally frees himself from the shackles. A fictional baseball player coming out, naked or not, doesn’t get my attention.

 

  

VOICE LESSONS

I don’t know anyone who likes the sound of their voice when they hear it on a voice message or some other recording. For me, it’s a particularly uncomfortable listen. Growing up, I spent a lot of time fretting over whether I sounded effeminate, whether a simple hello outed me as gay and, in turn, made me vulnerable to ridicule or something worse.

 

When I was contacted a month ago to be part of the show, Now or Never, on CBC Radio, my instinct was to reply with a politer version of “Hell, no!” Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t have a voice for radio. I can’t summon a fake, deep register like Ted Baxter. I can’t sound warm and folksy like Chris Wallace. In my head, I fear I sound like Snagglepuss. Canada is a progressive country and we’re as gay-welcoming as most any place, but still I wondered how many listeners would turn down the volume and then go ahead and change the station when they realized I might blather on for more than a minute. Indeed, my segment was supposed to be about ten minutes. Perhaps I’d lead to the demise of Now or Never after triggering an online social media campaign: #Never. 

 

Still, the show that I might be a part of interested me. CBC wanted the hourlong show to focus on The Joy of Exercise and I was being considered as the cautionary tale. A producer got my name from another CBC producer who’d published a short essay I wrote last year about being a guy with an eating disorder. I wasn’t diagnosed with anorexia until it had become a decades-long, entrenched habit that, despite treatment efforts, I can’t shake. I don’t want other men to struggle alone.

 

First step was a phone call the same afternoon as the email. Tight deadline apparently. I knew the purpose of the conversation: the producer had to screen me to see if I had something to say, to make sure I could think on the spot and, yes, to determine if my voice were radio-worthy. The call lasted half an hour. I made Andrew laugh, I gave him things to ponder and yet the whole time it felt like a déjà-vu coffee date—“I’ll let you know,” followed by a crushing email: “Great talking to you, but you’re just not the right fit.” That’s what hundreds of go-nowhere coffee dates will do. I’ve become an expert at prepping for the worst. If I can see a kick to the ribs coming, I can brace for it even if I don’t have the agility to skirt it.

 

But, no, this was an occasion to forgo doomsday preparations. The radio interview was on, one o’clock the next day. “You’ll like Trevor,” Andrew said of the host who would be interviewing me. “He’s easy on the eyes.” I did a Google Image search ahead of time. Andrew was right. Trevor Dineen had a face that was definitely not for radio. This is a guy who could post selfies on Twitter—“New haircut”; “Should I wear a shirt today?”—and get thousands of likes. (Just for comparison, I posted a new haircut photo from yesterday. Sixteen likes so far. Woo hoo!) I told myself that seeing how attractive Trevor was beforehand would keep me from getting tongue-tied during the first minutes of the interview.

 

Everything went well. We chatted for fifty minutes and I knew the piece would have to be pared down to ten at most. If I flubbed something or said “Um” too many times, I figured the magic of editing would make me sound more polished. It was only after disconnecting from our online connection that I wondered if I should have requested more editing magic: make my voice deeper…half an octave lower instead of one of those deep, slowed down audios they give to whistleblowers and people in the FBI Witness Protection Program.

 

Too late. What would be would be.

 

The interview didn’t air until six days later. Andrew had emailed me the link and told me my part would begin around the forty-minute mark of the program. I could have gone straight to that, but I needed to ease myself into hearing my voice and whatever it was that I’d rambled on about. I told myself I wanted to get the fuller experience. I wanted to hear all of the show and the various contributors. I wanted to hear my comments only after getting the right context as to how I fit or didn’t fit with the other speakers.

 

You can hear the whole program here or you can skip ahead to my part. I’m truly glad I listened to the entire show as I found the other segments to be interesting—especially the opening one about an 84-year-old woman who dressed up in pearls during COVID while exercising with her daughter. She sounded so lovely I wished the whole hour had been devoted to her. I smiled throughout the episode, proud to be Canadian as the speakers were so diverse in so many ways. I committed to listening more to CBC Radio.

 

And then it came time for my segment. Yes, I immediately picked up how distinctly gay my voice sounded. I waited for my sweat glands to go into overdrive, my shirt to get splotchy, first in the underarms and then in the midriff and back. But, no. I remained the prefect specimen for an antiperspirant commercial. Oh, how I’ve grown. I’m gay. So what? I mentioned being gay in the interview. Nothing to hide anymore. Let my voice be authentic. Let it just be.

 

What threw me more about my voice was how Canadian I sounded. My American friends are constantly telling me how I have a distinct accent, not just in how I stretch the words “out” and “about,” but in how I say everything. By gosh, they’re right. Even after an extended stint (now long ago) living in the U.S., I’m Canadian through and through. I’m a gay Canadian. I’m a gay Canadian with an eating disorder. And, brushing all those labels aside, I had something to say. Rather than being mortified, I was proud. 

 

The whole thing was a fun experience. Maybe there’s someone out there struggling with body issues, with exercise, with gayness and/or with an eating disorder or disordered eating who heard me. Maybe something I said struck a chord. Maybe I made a positive difference. Stripping away all my self-consciousness, that’s what my agreeing to the radio interview was all about. Let that be what matters.

 

 

 

 

 

 

MURPHY'S FLAW

I watched the pilot of “Glee” when it first aired. It blew me away. So fresh, so much feeling. I could root for the characters and I loved how the episode ended with a killer version of Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin.’” I was thrilled to learn it was directed, co-created and co-written by Ryan Murphy, a gay rising star in Hollywood. I watched the show for at least four of its six seasons, finally drifting away after too many casting changes and the inevitability of something fading out after too much hype.

 

Still, I couldn’t wait to see Ryan Murphy’s next acts of greatness. I’m still waiting. 

 

That’s an unpopular opinion, perhaps especially among gay people. I’m well aware how people have raved over various seasons of “American Crime Story” and series such as “Hollywood,” “Halston” and “Ratched.” For me, his post-Glee fare has been heavy on glitz and headline fodder while lite on heart. Sometimes, I’ve watched a pilot only to be turned off by something outlandish (“American Horror Story’s” Rubber Man or “Ratched’s” gory priest killings) that strikes me as too desperate and, frankly, distasteful. Not my thing.

 

Other times, I’ve watched an episode or two and simply been bored. Everything is pretty on screen, particularly the actors, but the performance feel intentionally detached, even wooden. The lead character of “Hollywood” had zero personality. I liked no one in “The Politician.” “Halston” was pure plastic. While I love actors like Ewan MacGregor and Jessica Lange, it’s maddening to see them cast in work for which I can’t summon an ounce of interest.

 

Ryan Murphy doesn’t need me. He continues to be praised. His work continues to be screened. Any mention of a new Murphy project does nothing more than generate a shrug from me. I get the sense he wanted to dissociate himself from being The Glee Guy and decided on darker fare like “The Assassination of Gianni Versace” (with “Glee’s” Darren Criss). It may have been compelling and well-acted. I just have zero interest in glorifying a murderer. No chance I’ll be watching Murphy’s upcoming miniseries about Jeffrey Dahmer either. Give me Blaine and Kurt, not gay serial killers.  

 

I still want to see “Pose” and I’m hopeful it will redeem Murphy. Please don’t let it be another misfire like “The New Normal.” Or schmaltzy like “The Prom.” Or grating like “The Boys in the Band.”

 

Mostly, I ignore Ryan Murphy. If a group of people starts to talk about one of his shows, I usually take that time to hit the restroom or check tennis scores on my phone. I can scroll through Twitter if the rhapsodizing runs long. If I’m lucky, Ryan Reynolds has done something funny and/or philanthropic or another bear has been filmed on someone’s backyard trampoline.

 

Over the past two weeks, I’ve had to watch a couple of episodes of “The Andy Warhol Diaries,” a Netflix docuseries for which Ryan Murphy has an executive producer credit. Okay, I wasn’t tied to a chair and force-fed bowls of Campbell’s tomato soup while the show streamed, but my new boyfriend was much enamored with the first few episodes and so I politely said, “Sure” when he suggested we watch an episode together. We are still working through all the firsts that occur in a budding relationship and this was our time watching TV together. I fell asleep.

 

It wasn’t entirely the show’s fault. My TV is in the bedroom since I refuse to have one as a centerpiece in the living room of my tiny home. I’ve had too many experiences visiting friends’ apartments and having the television automatically come on, becoming the fodder and filter for all conversation. I often get sleepy watching TV while propped up in bed. Usually, I turn it off after twenty minutes—which is probably my average Netflix viewing time—and decide to finish (or not finish) watching at some point over the next few months. I don’t binge and I have no urge to see something just because it’s trending.

 

With Evan by my side though as a fully engrossed viewer, the episode played on. I went through that eyes-open, eyes-closed battle, the closed position clearly having the edge. It’s possible I at least heard most of the episode, but I wouldn’t bet I could pass a pop quiz on what it was about.

 

To be clear, I love Pop Art. I have seen plenty of Warhol-specific and broader Pop Art exhibits at MOCA in Los Angeles, at the Vancouver Art Gallery, at The Walker in Minneapolis and elsewhere. When I taught seventh grade, I created a Pop Art unit that focused on Warhol and Roy Lichtenstein. My students loved it. I have Warhol books and I will always pause longer when I come across a Warhol work that’s part of a museum’s permanent collection. Sometimes I shrug but more often I walk away with a smile on my face. 

 

While I enjoy Warhol’s art, his life has always felt too manufactured, too shallow. It may mirror his work, but I prefer people to be more evolved than paintings. The hype for the docuseries suggested a fuller picture of the man. From the two episodes I watched—the second without even a moment of power napping—I was underwhelmed. Everything was remarkably flat, partly by intention. The AI-generated voice of Warhol sounded as interesting as when I used to call the library to get an auto-generated recording of when my books were due. A couple of reviews I read posited that Andy would have loved the voice since he was fascinated with machines and reproductions. Possibly. Still, not entertaining. It didn’t help that the episodes ran long.

 

What frustrated me most was that there wasn’t a clear thread to storylines that writer/director Andrew Rossi chose to highlight. There would be mention of Andy’s relationship with Jon Gould and then that would give way to a few minutes about Andy promoting a computer brand or attending a party, then drift to a longer linger on his relationship with Jean-Michel Basquiat. Much later—oh, yeah—there would be another mention of Gould. This may be accurate in terms of chronology, but it dilutes the focus on the connections with key people, the very storylines that are supposed to make Warhol more compelling as an actual person and not just a calculated icon. I felt zero emotional impact when the series finally discussed Gould’s death. That seemed like an almost impossible feat, given that Gould died at thirty-three in the earlier years of the AIDS crisis. I’m someone who religiously reads tributes every day on Instagram about people who’ve died of AIDS. Even some of those one-paragraph posts from, say, a coworker who didn’t really know the guy who worked in the neighboring cubicle have more emotional depth.

 

Ryan Murphy is one of the executive producers attached to “The Andy Warhol Diaries” and I have no doubt that his name helped get the series broadcast and further helped generate buzz and viewership. Indeed, Evan, who happens to love Ryan Murphy projects, seemed to think the docuseries was entirely his creation. Murphy was likely involved in meetings and in viewing some of the footage, offering input about tweaks, but this is primarily the work of Andrew Rossi who wrote and directed all of it. Maybe Rossi and Murphy connected because of the subject matter. Maybe it was because they have a similar view of visual media in terms of aesthetics and storytelling. Maybe it’s both.

 

I wonder if Murphy’s name on the project made me more prone to be critical. What I do know is the series feels like a missed opportunity to tell a compelling, human story about Warhol and the people in his social circle. I’ve already read and seen shallower portrayals. I’d hoped to learn more about the person instead of the character that was Andy Warhol. I didn’t get that. In fact, I’m less interested. I’m left thinking there really wasn’t any substance behind Warhol. Maybe that’s why Murphy aligned so well with the series as another glitzy, superficial and, ultimately, bland project. 

 

Watching a couple of episodes with Evan posed risks. He was clearly fascinated, enjoying cultural flashbacks to the ’80s and frequently exclaiming, “I never knew that!” After the second episode, I expressed at length my frustration with the documentary and my complete lack of emotional connection. As the first thing we’ve watched together, it might have been one of those shaky moments in the early going of a relationship. 

 

Good god, maybe we don’t have enough in common! How can he not LOVE this?   

 

Thankfully, that didn’t prove to be the case. Evan listened. He didn’t disagree. He didn’t sigh or question my taste or lack thereof. I could dislike the series and he could like it. Navigating a new relationship in our fifties is so much more enlightened than the early stages of twenty-something romances. We’re two fully evolved individuals. We can have distinct differences. They aren't a test to what we’ve got. That’s the one exciting thing I’ll take away from watching “The Andy Warhol Diaries.” Thanks, Ryan.

 

Evan will be watching the rest of the series on his own. I have some reading to do. Our relationship looks to endure longer than a docuseries’ fifteen minutes of fame.

THE HOSTING HANDICAP

Beijing had seven years to prepare to host the Winter Olympics. I’ve got ten days. I may only have one venue to ready and I don’t have to mess with patents for fake snow, but my mission is still daunting. 

 

Living alone, it’s easy for me to ignore my interior surroundings. I know my place could use some tidying up. Maybe more than “some.” A four-person crew could tackle it in an hour. Maybe two. Is it messed up that I put my messiness in context by assuredly telling myself they’d turn me down for an episode of “Hoarders”? That’s the standard. 

 

Over the past week, I’ve started eyeing clutter. 

 

Why do I have so many magazines scattered across my coffee table? Why is “The Summer Issue” of VegNews in prominent view? (It’s from 2020.) There was probably a recipe or two I romanticized about making one day. Some perfectly plated seaweed salad perhaps, with ingredients I’d have to have flown in from the tropics. It would surely make a memorable Instagrammable shot, garnering likes from at least a third of my forty-four followers. 

 

What should I do with the potted succulent on the windowsill? It’s been dying a slow death ever since I brought it home from IGA three months ago. It will not rebound. Three-fifths of it has fallen off, brown and crispy. This will be the third case of plant slaughter in the same site. Clearly, it’s the pot’s fault. 

 

I should regain control of my closet. Somewhere in the nether regions is a stylish raincoat I adore. It would be so nice to head out wearing it during Vancouver’s prolonged rainy season instead of toting my broken umbrella that doesn’t fully open. (It makes my succulent look healthy.) 

 

I’m starting to see places that need a good cleaning, too. Please note that I’m not totally gross. I think my neighbors may want to wring my neck over my obsessive use of my Dirt Devil mini vacuum. Kitchen surfaces are regularly wiped down, partly because I’m highly prone to epic spillage every time I prep a meal. (I have a tricky can opener.) Still, I realized yesterday that I’ve neglected the bathroom mirror. In my defense, I avoid looking at it. I’m a speed groomer. I know the bags under my eyes are still there. All day, every day. Why would I punish myself with a futile stare-down? I could put styling gel in my hair while blindfolded. What I noticed last night was that the mirror is pockmarked with splatterings. Water perhaps but likely numerous flossing projectiles, too. Damn, those bits have an impressive flying range! My dentist doubts me every time I say I floss. Before I wipe down the surface, I’m taking pics. Proof, Dr. Nagsalot! Just give me my sucker, my new toothbrush and let me go.

 

There are more neglected areas, but I sense I’ve already passed the point of Too Much Information. Are you still there, Dear Reader?

 

This sudden scrutiny regarding my surroundings arises from the possibility I may have a guest. COVID has been a handy excuse for keeping people at bay. My friend Katrina pointed out this week that she’s never seen my place which I moved into a week after the first lockdown. It’s been public patios and walks along the seawall for the past two years. I reminded her how committed I am to being a responsible citizen living in the pandemic era. (We can call it an era now, can’t we?) 

 

It's on account of Evan that I’m suddenly faced with the reality check that my abode is abominable. After an epic first date, things continue to progress. I’m doing what most of us do in the early stages, constantly reminding myself that this could be something…or nothing at all. As ready as I am for more, I’m also prepared to be ghosted. Should something like the latter occur in the coming weeks, watch for a blog post in which I chronicle with conviction all the reasons Evan was so clearly and comprehensively wrong for me. A flake! A scoundrel! Scum!

 

Please, let him not be scum.

 

It’s hope that prompts me to think I have a smackdown spring cleaning looming. Dust bunnies, beware! 

 

But my place requires more than a deep clean. My space needs oomph. There are no oohs or aahs. My décor would best be described as Make Do. So much of what I have I’ve been meaning to replace. I figured I’d do that once I moved to Toronto in 2020 which never happened because of that “era” we were stepping into. Buying more things here in Vancouver would have meant more packing and higher moving costs. I wanted to settle into a place, feel a new vibe and then shop for vibe-appropriate wine glasses. Same for vibe-y pillows, a vibe-y armchair and a vibe-y weeping fig…presumably more durable than sad little succulents. (“Weeping” is in the name so, if things don’t go well, I can say, “Duh…” and leave it at that.) 

 

Should Evan visit, I know I could dash to Bed Bath and Beyond to buy a new shower curtain and a decent duvet cover. I could get some overpriced candles at Granville Island. I could finish off with a daffodil decoy. Never mind three unopened moving boxes that serve as end tables; look at the vase! Not the vase itself which couldn’t be plainer. Just fix your eyes on the daffodils. So yellow! Wowzie yellow, right? A few blooms and a shower curtain don’t constitute more than a slight up-do to Make Do. Katrina would politely nod and say, “Nice place,” both of us knowing she’s lying but letting it go. That’s what friends do.

 

Not so with Evan. He’s both an architect and an interior designer. The whole reason I initially reached out to him online was because his profile oozed style. So above and beyond everyone else. His fashion sense is impeccable. His place is fabulous, a well-curated collection worthy of a magazine spread…and the cover. 

 

During our first FaceTime chat, he immediately cut me off in the middle of some undoubtedly scintillating remark by saying, “What’s going on with that painting?” It’s a lovely original work of art, reminiscent of Canada’s Group of Seven, painted by a local artist. Evan wasn’t knocking it; in fact, he liked it. However, it was hung wrong. 

 

I know this. It’s mounted ridiculously high above the sofa. Normally, I would never hang it like that but there was one nail in the wall when I moved in and that’s what I went with. I was only supposed to be here five months, six tops. None of us thought we were heading into an era. My other prized painting rests on the floor, leaning against the opposite wall. I know that, if I decided to properly mount these items, there would be a lot of trial and error. (If I can’t figure out a can opener, imagine what I do with a hammer and nails.) Part of me never wanted to feel like I was settling in here while another part of me wanted to ensure I got the whole damage deposit back when I moved out. Big holes in walls are glaring once the paintings covering them are removed.

 

The painting over the sofa was enough for Evan to say, “I’ll be staying at a hotel,” should he ever visit me in Vancouver. Was he kidding? Early stages…so much to be unsure of. Worst case scenario, he wasn’t kidding but, presumably, he’d let me stop by. A night or two at a Vancouver hotel would be a treat. Staycations are still a thing in the present era.

 

It’s more than the paintings, of course. My duvet has a hole in it…somewhere. Perhaps several holes. I’m a restless sleeper so my bedroom floor looks like the bottom of a chicken coup every morning, feathers all over the place. (Dirt Devil to the rescue!) Every item in the kitchen is dated (except that dang can opener). Heck, everything everywhere. If my place makes a statement, it’s with the wrong kind of exclamation tacked on. 

 

I know, I know…if Evan’s into me, permanently spotted wine glasses won’t matter. He’s dating me, not my dollar store vase. I’ll still be mortified. Thus far, I seem to have made a great impression almost in spite of myself. I’ve shared all my emotional baggage. Sharing my space seems more daunting.

 

The reality is that Evan’s possible visit only brings to light my own disappointment with my living space. Way back when, in my twenties, I was developing a strong sense of style, bathroom rubber duckie collection notwithstanding. (They’re all gone, along with the thoughtfully placed children’s picture book, Everyone Poops.) In my forties moving into a house of my own, I had beautiful furniture custom-made. I gave it all away when I moved back to Vancouver, none of it matching the scale of a teensy condo. I’ve regressed since then. Make Do is code for dorm-shabby. My place would pass muster if I were eighteen. No one would care about the broken, faded office chair relegated to the balcony. My vodka and gin collection would be enough to dazzle. 

 

Alas, I’m fifty-seven, not eighteen. I have so much growing up to do in the next ten days. I just bought a brand new soap dispenser for the bathroom. I can already feel the wow factor rising.